Two Promotions
by Tricksy Bird
Summary: Three years before Darkly Dawns the Duck. After a stalemate the conflict between SHUSH and FOWL is heating up again and events will result in the promotions of two very different indiviuals to chief agents. Featuring - who else - Grizzlikov and Steelbeak.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Darkwing Duck or any character featured in that show and I don't make money with this. This goes for this and all future chapters of this story.

**Author's Note: **This started out as a bit of background for my other story, Close to Home, and grew from there. It should work as a stand-alone as well, though. This story is set about three years before Darkly Dawns the Duck and details how Grizzlikov and Steelbeak got to their current positions as chief agents of their respective organizations.

We all know what happened to Steelie's predecessor, so this story will naturally imply a few disturbing situations, but all the gory stuff happens off-screen. What little graphic violence does occur should be covered by the current rating.

I hope you enjoy the read, and of course reviews are much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Introduction**

The stately building in the heart of St Canard that hosted S.H.U.S.H. central was bustling with activity. Clerks were busy handling tons of paper, security guards kept a watchful eye on the premises and the obligatory class of fifth-graders out on a field trip was being led through the corridors, excitedly whispering among themselves.

In comparison the topmost floor was almost eerily quiet. Due to the secrecy of the matters that were handled here, access was usually restricted to higher ranking personnel – most of which were now assembled in the Director's office. J. Gander Hooter somberly looked at the agents he had summoned for a meeting of grave importance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I called you here to discuss the situation overseas," the gander announced and the agents nodded. They all knew which situation their Director was referring to.

Two years ago, through a combination of skill, panache and sheer luck, the DIA had managed to take out Dr NoGood, the head of the European branch of F.O.W.L., jokingly referred to by most agents as the _Foreign_ Organization of World Larceny.

With the local leadership of the organization in complete disarray its members had turned on each other like mad dogs. Some, the ambitious ones, vied for the vacant position at the top of the food chain while others tried to sever ties with their parent organization and eke out their own little empires. At the same time independent criminals saw the crack in F.O.W.L.'s power and moved in for the kill. And of course everybody saw the perfect opportunity to settle old scores. Within days the criminal underworld in cities all over Europe erupted in a vicious, bloody power-struggle and it was all the authorities could do to try and keep civilians out of the line of fire – and the true goings-on away from the headlines.

In their struggle to restore order – or at least stability – the law was aided, ironically enough, by F.O.W.L. itself. From what could be gathered from between the lines of literally hundreds of action reports, the mysterious avians who formed High Command had cracked down on dissenters and challengers alike, with the full extent of their power. In a masterstroke of logistics they had dispatched a veritable army, and what had started out as a series of isolated skirmishes turned into an all-out war.

While the secret battles raged in Europe the situation on the other side of the Atlantic was no less tense. With their resources stretched to the breaking point F.O.W.L. buried itself deeper than ever and they guarded their secrets with a brutality so far unheard of. Several informants met with very sticky ends and with visible criminal activity at an all-time low, the agents of S.H.U.S.H. were reduced to following paper trails and third-hand rumors, often in vain.

But now, after almost two years, the flood of reports of firefights, arson, car bombs and assassinations from overseas had shriveled to a trickle. Apparently the situation in Europe could be considered stable again, and J. Gander Hooter had called his leading agents to inform them that the uneasy ceasefire in the States was about to end.

"The reports of the DIA are clear on this, and our own analysts agree," he told them. "The local underworld is growing restive as of late, and we've had several sightings of felons who are known to have ties with F.O.W.L.." He folded his hands on the desk with a grave sigh. "It seems High Command is calling their agents home."

"So they finally decided to cut their losses," chief agent James Pochard commented with a sardonic half-smile. Smiling came naturally to the drake, it was rare that his beak didn't show at least some sign of amusement – a stark contrast to his ursine friend and oft-time partner who was all scowls.

"Such as they are," agent Grizzlikov muttered darkly.

Hooter smiled briefly at the exchange, as it mirrored his own feelings on the matter. As far as their analysts could tell, F.O.W.L. had lost close to one third of their network in Europe in the aftermath of NoGood's death – a serious set-back to their power, but a far cry from what the euphoric DIA had expected right after the canine's demise. Of course with the invisible conflict sprawled out over several different countries, all of which had their own jurisdiction and internal politics to worry about, launching a coordinated attack on the syndicate had been all but impossible, but Hooter couldn't help but feel that a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had been missed.

"I am afraid we cannot hope to prevent them from entering the country," the gander said unhappily. "They've had more than enough time to make the necessary arrangements at their leisure."

"Do we even know how many are left?" agent Fangwell, a lean canine, asked. "Surely they've had casualties."

"Beyond a doubt, but we have no idea how many," Hooter had to admit. "In addition to the seven agents still in custody of the DIA we have four confirmed fatalities on F.O.W.L.'s part. We can only guess how many losses they suffered beyond that. Regardless, they will become bolder again. We have to be ready."

He scanned his agents when he said the words, pleased to see the determination on their faces. Unfortunately they would need more than determination in the coming weeks. Even if only half of the agents made it back here, they would be the better half. Those who were careless, slow or simply not smart enough – in other words, those who S.H.U.S.H. would be able to handle with little effort – had likely perished in the bloody conflict overseas. The ones who came home now were not only the best F.O.W.L. had to offer, they had been tempered by two years of constantly being on edge, of being sent from one hot spot to another, always fighting and killing for influence, power and their own lives. With operatives like that filling the ranks again, High Command would no doubt seek to break free of their self-imposed boundaries, and sooner than Hooter would like.

A storm was brewing.

.* * *.

After the meeting was concluded agent Grizzlikov stood next to the coffee machine in the corridor, a paper cup with the deep black liquid in his right hand. "These home-comers will be trouble," he muttered, unknowingly echoing Hooter's thoughts. "If they survived that turf-war they will be cream of the harvest."

James Pochard, long-time friend of the ursine, gave a good-natured sigh of exasperation. "It's cream of the _crop_, Vlad."

The huge bear furrowed his brow as he mused over the expression. "That makes no sense, either," he decided with a shrug.

"Anyway, if we're lucky it will take them some time to reorganize. You know, establish a new pecking order." James took a sip out of his own cup, looking thoughtful. "And I guess some of our old friends are going to wake up with knives in their backs pretty soon."

Grizzlikov snorted. "That's nothing to count on. They control their agents better than _that_."

"So they think, but some might try and advance their position all the same. F.O.W.L. doesn't exactly cater to fair-players."

"But it caters to people who are good at making examples," the bear muttered darkly. "You know..."

James made a disgusted sound. "Please, that _has_ to be a rumor." When his friend raised a skeptical eyebrow, he conceded, "Or at least an exaggeration."

The bear _harrumph_ed, but left it at that.

"I only hope it won't take us too long to assess their new strategy," the duck continued. "Maybe once we find out what they're up to we can drop these heightened security protocols."

"It's S.H.U.S.H. regulation," the bear said with a shrug.

"I know it's necessary," James said evasively. "It's just bad timing, is all."

"How so?"

The duck muttered something incomprehensible.

Grizzlikov raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I met someone, all right?" the other sighed. "There. Happy?"

"You mean you met girl?" the ursine asked, skeptical for a moment. James didn't answer but instead gave a sheepish smile, and Grizzlikov's surly expression turned into a huge grin. "You _met _girl!"

"Shh, keep it down," the drake whispered, apparently not keen to have his new acquaintance discussed by the grapevine. "And it's not just any girl. I think this could be... you know, the one." His beak turned into a ridiculously happy smile.

Still grinning, the bear clapped his friend on the back – causing the avian to stumble an unsteady step forward. "Then you don't let her get away," he said with playful sternness. "Maybe she'll finally make honest duck out of you."

"Eh, we're nowhere near to _that_," James replied as he regained his balance. "But... maybe, if it lasts..." His face grew serious again. "But, see, that's the problem. She's a sweet girl, and I don't want to spook her with some huge security detail."

His own smile faltering as well, Grizzlikov sighed. "She doesn't know what you do?"

"She thinks I'm an accountant," the duck admitted with a helpless shrug. "You know how it is, if you tell a girl you're with S.H.U.S.H. she's either intimidated or expects you to act like Derek Blunt."

"You know what girls do when they find out they have been lied to?" Grizzlikov asked dryly.

"Yes, I do," James muttered. "That's why this added security is so inconvenient right now. She'll be angry enough when I tell her, but if she finds out because she stumbles into one of our agents..." His face fell. "I'll _really_ be plucked, then."

"You have to tell her soon," Grizzlikov said quietly. "This heightened security won't just go away." And while he didn't consider himself an expert when it came to female sensitivities, he suspected that being brought in and questioned by S.H.U.S.H. because of her association with their chief agent might be a good reason for any girl to terminate said association.

"I know," the avian sighed. "I'll just have to find the right moment. This is nothing I can do on the phone."

"I'm sure she'll understand," the ursine told his friend encouragingly.

"Yeah, that's what I hope." Dropping his empty paper cup into the waste-bin, the drake straightened his tie. "Come on, let's get to work. See what we can coax out of the surveillance systems." More to himself he added, "I know I'll sleep easier once we have a measure of the new guys."

.* * *.

In front of a nondescript office building a cab stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered rooster in a pristine tuxedo stepped out and for a second his metallic prosthetic beak was resplendent in a ray of sunlight. He flinched at the sudden brightness – this would definitely take some getting used to.

As the car drove off, the avian strode up the stony steps to the main entrance. At the top of the stairs however he hesitated and turned around to regard the famous skyline with a grim smile.

"Ah, St Canard. It's _so_ good to be back." The city hadn't changed all that much in his absence. He, on the other hand, had changed quite a bit.

Two years ago, after Dr NoGood's death had thrown the European branch of F.O.W.L. into chaos, Steelbeak had been one of the operatives High Command had sent abroad to bring their wayward assets to heel again – or, barring that, bring them down. Back then he had been one of many agents – flagged as promising, but still with little more than his sorry excuse for a prosthetic beak to distinguish him from the bulk. Things were different now.

When he entered the building he was quickly apprehended by two guards in nondescript suits – who even more quickly straightened up when they recognized him. One of them escorted him to the elevator and entered the code that would grant him access to the lower floors.

"Welcome home, Sir," the duck said when the elevator-doors closed behind him and he began his slow descent. Steelbeak gave a smug grin. Now this was much more like it.

During his time abroad he had quickly earned himself a certain reputation. First of all, by not dying – not a small feat in an environment where F.O.W.L. operatives – both local and imported – had perished left and right at the hands of renegades, independent criminals and general riffraff. Steelbeak wasn't privy to all the numbers, but by his estimate only two fifths of the agents High Command had sent would return from their little field trip. It would take the organization years to recover from this.

Of course it could have been worse. The whole European network had been dangerously close to simply evaporating and those who were loyal to F.O.W.L. - or rather, those who were smart enough to avoid the wrath of High Command – had had to fight tooth and claw to regain control again. The results he had been able to produce in that department had quickly made him one of High Command's favored agents – complete with bigger paychecks and a considerably longer leash.

More importantly, he had been the one to hunt down the traitorous agent Feathers Galore who had aided the DIA in eliminating NoGood. Somehow she had coaxed a full pardon out of the agency and since then done her best to drop off the radar – he had found her holed up in a cozy little cottage in the Swiss Alps. The cover had been perfect, except for the regular letters she had written to her long-time lover, Bruno von Beak – at the time imprisoned in a high security facility near Duckburg and busy with exchanging classified information against a reduced sentence.

Incidentally, the mallard had recently passed away as well, from a sudden and entirely unexpected heart-attack.

Glancing at his reflection in the metal walls Steelbeak once more admired his polished metal beak. Eliminating Galore had certainly paid off for him – not only in the form of a substantial raise but, more importantly, a stay in one of F.O.W.L.'s secret hospitals where, during a nine-hour surgery, his old prosthetic beak had been replaced with – well, _this_ baby. The fact that it was far more expressive and optically pleasing than the dull, bulky monstrosity he had been fitted with right after what he thought of as the 'accident' was the least of it.

Unlike the old one this implant wasn't made of actual steel but a special light alloy, which greatly reduced the weight of the prosthetic, thus finally relieving him of a very literal pain in the neck. Along with that came heightened endurance and certain other enhancements – designed to give him an _edge_, as it had been put by Dr. Floccus, his attending physician.

It wasn't much of a pun, but after two months of convalescence Steelbeak had to agree with the portly gander. He was still awed by the ease with which he was now able to cut ropes, chains and even gun-barrels in two – just with a snap of his beak. Of course there were downsides. The first week he had been able to eat something that wasn't served in a feeding cup, he'd spit out severed fork-rakes as often as not. He had learned to control _that _by now but it would probably take a few more weeks until he attempted tasks that required more sophisticated fine motor skills – like French kissing. Steelbeak gave an acquiescent sigh. The things he did for his career.

With a soft bounce the elevator hit bottom, the steel doors opened and he faced a heavily muscled bulldog, clad in a black turtleneck and matching pants, who greeted him with a huge smirk. "Now look who's back from vacation. Nice suit."

Steelbeak's expression remained carefully blank. "Chief agent Stavro. Long time no see."

"Aw, c'mon, tin-grin. Give me a smile," the canine said with condescending joviality. "I hear you had a _blast_ in Vienna."

"Three, actually," Steelbeak replied dryly as he stepped out of the elevator. A sweet little explosive device smuggled into a gathering of renegades who were in the process of setting up a protection racket, a bigger but equally sweet device to destroy an abandoned lab before it could fall into the hands of the authorities and a car bomb to get rid of a snooping DIA-agent, for good measure. "Want me to tell you about the _bang_-up job I did in Bruges, as well?"

Stavro's face darkened. "Look who's gotten cocky. But I guess in your case that's not much of a feat, eh, chicken?" He put an arm around Steelbeak's shoulder with a little more pressure than necessary. "Let me give you a bit of advice, here. Maybe you had some good times overseas, mopping up the dregs. But remember that you're back in St Canard, now. This is where we go toe-to-toe with S.H.U.S.H., this is playing with the big boys."

The rooster raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Do tell."

"Now, it looks like High Command thinks you can make it here, and who am I to argue with _them_," Stavro continued, ignoring the sally. "But I'd suggest you watch that attitude, 'cause it's really easy to wind up a smear on the concrete, here."

"So I hear," Steelbeak said neutrally. He had heard a great many things. Even in a super-secret organization like F.O.W.L. nothing could stop the grapevine. Word was that the chief agent had a little too much fun playing with the scrap press nowadays. Technically that wasn't really a flaw – if F.O.W.L. restricted membership to people _without_ homicidal tendencies it would pretty much defeat the whole purpose – but there was such a thing as moderation. Making a messy example out of a captured enemy agent was one thing – heck, that was practically a perk. But squashing subordinates for increasingly trivial reasons wasn't just hell on the budget, it also generally wreaked havoc with morale. And compacting some dumb kid for dinging one's car – now that was just tacky.

"Speaking of High Command," the rooster continued, ignoring the thinly veiled threat for the moment, "I assume there's a conference room around, somewhere? They want me to call in as soon as I'm here."

"And you wouldn't want to keep them waiting, now would you?" the canine asked snidely and made no attempt to move.

After a few seconds Steelbeak rolled his eyes and cast a meaningful glance towards the ceiling – and to one of the numerous surveillance cameras which adorned the bleak corridor. "I'm sure neither of us would want that," he replied softly.

He hadn't thought it possible but Stavro's face darkened even more. "_Eggman!_" he roared, causing Steelbeak to wince.

Both agents turned towards the end of the corridor where one of the yellow-clad ducks was all but shoved into their line of sight by three pairs of hands in orange gloves. For a few seconds the short avian just stared at them, then he picked himself up in a desperate salute. "Sir!" he managed, and after a few seconds and an uncertain glance at the rooster added a half-hearted "...s?"

"Get agent Steelbeak to the conference room," the canine barked. "He has an appointment to keep."

"Sir!" the eggman repeated, slightly less panicked than before.

With a disgusted snort Stavro turned back to Steelbeak. "There you are. Now go see the big birds. Enjoy your moment in the sun." He leaned in on the rooster and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Because _I'm_ going to enjoy what happens once it's over."

With that the huge bulldog walked off, roaring with laughter. Steelbeak watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face.


	2. Tension

**Chapter 2: Tension**

With a relieved sigh agent Grizzlikov closed his pen and pushed himself out of his chair. Time to call it a day – about time, he noticed, when he glanced out of the window. It was pitch-black outside. After tidying his desk he closed up his office and went to the chief agent's bureau where the light that fell into the corridor through the gap under the door told him that James was still working as well. The bear wasn't surprised – with their efforts to identify the homecoming F.O.W.L.-agents, combined with the paperwork that went with the heightened security protocols, the workload had almost tripled. Announcing his presence with a soft knock against the door-frame he entered the room.

"You still at work?" he asked, and the avian looked up at him out of bloodshot eyes.

"I swear, this red tape will be the death of me," the other sighed. "And not enough that we have to assess the home comers _and _set up a higher security detail for all our agents and their families, now the old guard is causing trouble as well."

"Stavro again?" Grizzlikov asked. He had been away from the news-feeds for the evening, following up on a lead that suggested F.O.W.L. had smuggled in one or more of their operatives into St Canard via a certain airfreight.

The drake nodded. "It's madness. I mean the guy hasn't been all that stable for months, but-" He gestured at the papers on his desk. "-this is something else. It's the third informant who disappeared this week – and _this_ one informed on pretty much everybody. Minor stuff. Usually they wouldn't even bother to rough him up for that."

"Seems Stavro has something to prove," the ursine suggested. "Maybe he feels threatened by newcomers."

"If he keeps going like this he'll pretty much prove that he's gone bananas," James sighed and returned his attention to his desk – only to look up again when a furry hand snatched his pen away with surprising deftness. "Hey!"

"You are calling it night," Grizzlikov stated and used the pen to tap against his wrist-watch. "You been here since 7:30 am, and S.H.U.S.H. regulation states that unless there is emergency, no agent is allowed to work more than twelve hours straight."

"Vlad, come on, that's more a guideline than an actual rule. I can still get some work done."

"Really." The bear leaned forward and covered the documents with a flat hand. "Then what is name of disappeared informant?"

"Uh..." For a few seconds James stared ahead, his face blank. Then he shook his head with an acquiescent sigh. "All right, I see your point. Just give me five minutes to tidy up."

"Sure." Grizzlikov's eyes wandered to the in-tray on the mallard's desk. "You're not behind with paperwork," he stated with mild surprise – that was a feat almost unheard of at S.H.U.S.H..

"Actually I'm trying to get ahead," James murmured, his voice slightly muffled since the upper half of his body was crammed into the safe he kept the most secret documents in. When he came out and turned to his friend again he smiled like a love-struck schoolboy. "I've got a date tomorrow. With Emily. We'll have dinner at her place." His mirth somewhat faltering he added, "Although I guess my little revelation will cramp the mood a bit."

The bear sighed. He hoped for his friend's sake that the young lady wouldn't be too upset when she learned of her boyfriend's true profession. "You will be fine," he assured the drake.

"Yes, I guess you're right." His face brightened. "And once she gets used to the idea of dating a spy you have to meet her – I'm sure you two will get along splendidly."

The ursine returned the smile. "I'd like that."

"Of course, if it doesn't go well, it is your solemn duty to take me out on a bender to bemoan the fickleness of fate and females," he added with exaggerated gravity and gave his friend a wink that belied his words. "And to carry me home once I'm plastered."

"That would be after the second pint," Grizzlikov replied in much the same tone. "But I'll make sure you won't sleep in puddle." He grinned. "Though I won't promise to keep Emily from smacking you when you come home like that."

"Spoken like a true friend," James laughed and clapped the ursine on the back – he had to reach up for that – and together they made for the stairs.

.* * *.

As he stepped out of his car into the chilly morning air, Steelbeak stifled a yawn. He had never been much of a morning person and working overtime didn't help.

Upon his return to St Canard High Command had set him to work immediately. Apart from catching up on what files they had about the local S.H.U.S.H. agents and the big players among the independent criminals he was also taking over some projects from Stavro – to distribute the workload, as they said. The bulldog had grudgingly accepted that – of course he had no more choice in the matter than Steelbeak himself – but made sure that all the promising ventures remained firmly under his control, leaving his colleague with the small potatoes. That wasn't to be helped, though, and the rooster didn't think it wise to protest too loudly – Stavro was in a frighteningly bad mood as it was.

For the moment he was busy enough, anyway. Right now he was to meet a mid-level operative, one Jack Reynards, who was currently working undercover in the administrative department of the state pen. Unfortunately it wasn't feasible to meet him in the underground complex downtown. That place wasn't a regular operational base as much as a giant archive and High Command wanted to keep the number of comings and goings at the facility as low as possible to avoid detection. If S.H.U.S.H. ever got wind of the place and sent a task force, removing all the files in time would be impossible. Of course the whole complex was booby-trapped for such a case, to keep the information from falling into enemy hands, but Steelbeak fully agreed that resorting to that was best to be avoided – especially since he had his doubts about the self-destruction sequence including a time-window for evacuation.

Since they didn't want any witnesses to this meeting Steelbeak had told Reynards to meet him at the junkyard. As far as secluded places went it was as good as any, and it couldn't hurt to at least pretend that he wasn't intimidated by Stavro's unspoken and less unspoken threats.

This shabby little company in the southern outskirts of St Canard was owned and managed by F.O.W.L. as a convenient way to get rid of incriminating evidence. Unlike other facilities the organization ran this one didn't use elaborate disguises but simply hid in plain sight. The city didn't care about this place as long as the taxes were paid on time and since the abysmal customer service was usually enough to discourage visitors the perimeter wasn't even guarded – unless the evidence was still kicking, of course.

When he entered the junkyard proper, the space filled with huge walls and hills of derelict cars, dredgers and other machines which surrounded the infamous scrap press like a moat, the short vulpine clad in business casual was already waiting for him. Walking up to him Steelbeak cast a dismal glance into the pit, where a scrawny weasel in a dirty grey overall was busy hosing the latest testimony of Stavro's foul mood off the walls. "Morning," he said curtly and nodded towards the stain. "Any idea what that was about?"

The fox gave him a look. "You want to know the cause or the reason?"

"Ah. Point taken."

"Seriously, I have to admire your pluck," Reynards observed dryly. "I had someone like Stavro gunning for me, I'd be running for the hills."

Steelbeak didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead he continued to look into the pit with sick fascination. "How long does it take?"

"Depends," the other said with a shrug. "If he's impatient you get the quick treatment, maximum force – _wham_." He smashed his flat hands together for emphasis. "Worse ways to go, I suppose. But if he decides that he _really_ doesn't like you, well..." He had the grace to feign sympathy when he said it. "See, he has this party trick. Puts a car down there with you. The cylinders can't go all the way, not with that huge mass of steel plate, so they smash it down just enough for the second set of hammers to get a proper grip – and so on. Basically you run through six trash compactors – although opinions differ on how many you're actually conscious for."

"Right. Color me disgusted," the rooster muttered.

"So if it was me, I wouldn't leave my bedroom without some heavy painkillers on my person – if you know what I mean," Reynards said and wiggled his eyebrows.

Of course Steelbeak knew. Those little capsules that didn't stop at killing the pain were a depressingly common part of a F.O.W.L. agent's equipment. "You know, you seem awfully certain that I'm gonna need them," he replied sourly.

"Sorry, Steels, but the smart money says you'll be down there screaming like a little girl before the next pay check," the fox stated with more mirth than strictly necessary. "Nothing personal, you see – that's just how it works around here."

"Sure," the rooster crooned with a sweet smile, deciding that he would see this little slime grovel at his feet before long. "But while I'm still up and about, why don't we get some work done, eh? Because if I do end up down there I'll want to go solo, not get mixed up with your sorry leftovers."

That wiped the smirk off his face with satisfying speed. "Right. You wanted access to the state pen," he muttered. "How urgent?"

"Depends. How's tricks inside?"

"Not good," the vulpine said flatly. "By now it's all but certain that he'll do his time there, and our boys inside are getting nervous. With good reason."

Steelbeak scowled. The guy wasn't even officially sentenced yet and already the threat of his shadow was felt in the state pen. That place, for obvious reasons, had been one of the most reliable sources of new recruits in St Canard. Promising candidates were assessed by inside agents, both in regards to their skills and their willingness to work under the powerful syndicate and, if they met the criteria, approached. Many inmates, upon their release, simply exchanged prison orange with eggman yellow and were shipped off to their basic training, while those with marketable skills beyond brute force received a more specialized schooling. A few key officials received hush money to see to it that any attempts from S.H.U.S.H. to interfere with the arrangement got tangled up in the red tape and aside from the odd unfortunate incident – some people just couldn't see reason – everything had been dandy.

However with the criminal mastermind Taurus Bulba about to set up shop in the place the recruiters found their position to become perilous. The huge bull was notoriously prickly when it came to others cutting in on what he perceived to be his territory – it was only a matter of time until the F.O.W.L. agents inside would suffer from fatal accidents, either on orders from Bulba himself or as a display of loyalty from inmates who saw the way the wind was blowing.

The bull's own criminal network had nothing on F.O.W.L. in terms of size, of course, but it was tightly knit and highly effective, its members kept in line by the sheer force of Bulba's personality. Breaking it up would require more effort than could be spared at the moment, so the order from up high was to evacuate their operatives as soon as possible – and for the mean time prepare a back-up plan in case they cracked under the pressure and went running to S.H.U.S.H. for protection.

"I don't suppose the old washerwoman-routine would work?" Steelbeak quipped sardonically.

"You'd be surprised," Reynards sighed. "The warden there got the job for being some governor's nephew, not for competence. You could probably hide a weapon of mass destruction in the laundry and he wouldn't notice."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. He's about the only one at top level we're not bribing – everything aside from annoying the inmates goes straight over his head, anyway." The fox shrugged. "That's why it's such a shame to give the place up."

"Probably why Bulba's pulling all the strings to get there in the first place," Steelbeak mused. He gave a short, hard laugh as something occurred to him. "Boy, he's gonna love it in there – we're leaving him with the whole infrastructure for hushing things up already in place."

"The good news is that we can probably enlist a few guards to help us – they know what will happen if we don't get our agents out, and they have no more interest in blood on the walls than we do."

The rooster narrowed his eyes at this choice of words, the sloshing sounds from under his feet suddenly unnaturally loud to his ears, but he dismissed it. It wouldn't do to jump at _every_ shadow. Without sparing the compactor another glance Steelbeak listened thoughtfully as Reynards related the details of the comings and goings at the prison to him, every now and then absent-mindedly touching the tiny hinge on his left cuff link.

.* * *.

The heavy workload at S.H.U.S.H. central didn't leave much time for coffee breaks, so when the afternoon sun was slowly turning red, the corridor of the topmost floor was empty and nobody heard the raised voices that came through the wooden door of the chief agent's office. It didn't happen very often that Vladimir Grizzlikov and James Pochard had a serious disagreement, so naturally if it did happen it had to be about something important. Which made backing down much harder for either of them.

"Look, you knew that I'm visiting Emily tonight," James snapped. "I told you so yesterday. You wished me luck."

"For telling your girl the truth about your work," Grizzlikov snarled through bared teeth. "Not for slipping out of safety protocol."

"Right, I'm just going to turn up there with three vans full of armed agents in tow. _That_ will look _really_ harmless."

"Is not supposed to look harmless," the bear retorted. "Is supposed to keep you safe. You _know_ F.O.W.L. is out for blood-"

James bared his teeth as well, although the look was far less impressive on him. "No, I _suspect_ that _one_ of them _might _be out for blood. And that one has been notoriously unstable for more than a year-"

"-and might now be pushed over the edge by sudden competition," Grizzlikov exclaimed. Why couldn't this love-sick duck see reason? "If Stavro wants to secure his position, you can think of a better way than taking you out?"

"Yes. Taking out Director Hooter," James replied automatically. When he realized his tactical mistake he winced, but it was too late.

Grizzlikov crossed his arms. "That is why _he_ follows regulations."

"There are more important things than following regulations, you stubborn big bear! Like me missing out on the best thing that ever happened to me! I'm doing this, and you can't stop me."

His arms still crossed in front of his massive chest the ursine calmly stepped in front of the door, not bothering to point out that, why yes, he certainly could.

The drake rubbed his forehead. "Come on, Vlad. You've bent the rules before-"

"No, I haven't."

"Fine, but I have," James sighed. "And it always worked out, didn't it?"

Grizzlikov hesitated. It was hard to argue with success. Still, he tried. "You were objective then – mostly. Now you are in love. Being in love is _not _objective."

"You're acting like Emily's an agent of F.O.W.L.." The avian was getting seriously annoyed. "I know that being paranoid is part of the job description, but this-"

"I know she's no enemy agent," the ursine sighed. He knew because he had run a very discreet background check on the girl as soon as he had coaxed her full name out of his friend. Usually that was standard S.H.U.S.H. procedure but so far James had refused to notify the agency of his relationship. That infringement could easily cost him his job but the mallard wanted to explain everything to his lady friend, give her the opportunity to walk away before letting the government poke around in her past. Grizzlikov could respect that but while he wouldn't dream of ratting out his friend he still wasn't willing to let him risk his life out of gallantry. Of course he would rather bite off his tongue than admit all that to James, the drake was angry enough as it was.

"Look, if you don't want any agent, at least let me come along," the bear suggested. "I'll wait in car-"

Despite his frustration James had to smile at that. "Vlad, you know you are my best friend, so please don't take this personally – but having you sit on Emily's porch will seriously kill the mood."

"Better the mood than you," the ursine muttered.

Seeing his friend's honest concern, the avian's expression softened. "Look, let's be reasonable. I didn't tell anybody about me meeting her tonight – aside from you, that is, and I think we can agree that you're not working for F.O.W.L.."

Grizzlikov growled at that, but nodded reluctantly.

"Emily didn't tell anyone because she hates to listen to her friends giving well-meant advice before a date. In fact she told me that she was looking forward to her roommate's face when I came by." He crossed his arms as well and stared up into the bear's face. "So I'm probably safer at her place than I would be taking a stroll in the park. _Nobody knows_."

"Still," the ursine murmured, feeling his resolve dwindle. "S.H.U.S.H. regulations..."

"Vlad, please," James pleaded. "I really... I have to make her understand that I..." He couldn't bring himself to say the word. Instead he just shrugged, almost helplessly. "This is important to me, Vlad."

After a long pause, Grizzlikov sighed, defeated. "Fine. Go meet your girl. I won't tell."

A relieved smile appeared on the avian's beak. "Thank you," he exclaimed. Judging by the look on his face he could barely keep himself from hugging the huge ursine. "I'll never forget this – you'll be my best bear at the wedding."

"At the least," Grizzlikov jested, but he couldn't quite shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.

.* * *.

When he left the florist two blocks from S.H.U.S.H. central later that evening James Pochard was a very happy avian. He hummed an old love song and although he didn't remember more than the first two lines of the lyrics he couldn't help but feel that it had been written for her. For them. In his hands he carried a huge bouquet of red roses he had ordered earlier this day – you just couldn't go wrong with a classic.

He stopped dead when he heard the florist close up the shop as soon as the door fell shut behind him. It was far too early for that. Frowning he turned around and saw the shop girl, a petite ursine – he had thought about introducing her to Vlad, he thought absurdly – stare at him out of wide and frightened eyes, an armed eggman holding her by the elbow.

"See, that's the trouble with florists," said a taunting voice – close, far too close to his ear. "They just can't keep a secret." James' eyes widened in sudden terror. He knew that voice.

Throwing the roses at Stavro's face he danced away from him and reached into his jacket, for his gun. He felt his fingertips brush the cold steel, like a cruel jape, when he bumped into the massive chest of a huge eggman who stared at him impassively – or pitifully? Impossible to tell with those black visors – and sent a fist the size of a melon flying at his face. The asphalt came up to him like a wall and knocked the air out of him. Something metallic clattered on the street next to him – he had no idea whether it was his gun or his keys or maybe an old can but he reached for it with the desperation of a drowning man. But before he could even touch whatever it was, a heavy boot came down on his outstretched hand like a hammer, and he could _feel_ his bones break.

"Well well well. James Pochard," the huge bulldog sneered. "You know, I've looked forward to meeting _you_."

James tried to keep his beak closed, not wanting to show weakness, or fear. But when Stavro twisted his boot the pain in his hand exploded and he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"You won't pass out on me, will you?" F.O.W.L.'s chief agent asked with mock concern. "Because we have lots to discuss, you and I. _Lots._ We'll make a night of it." Finally he lifted his foot and the drake pulled his broken hand to his chest, cradling it protectively. Before he could form a coherent thought again he was pulled bodily off the ground, hanging helplessly between two eggmen, and a furry paw grabbed his beak and forced him to look at the huge canine. "In fact," his tormentor said, his smile widening even more, "how about we make a nice little trip to the junkyard?"


	3. Escalation

**Chapter 3: Escalation**

Considering that F.O.W.L. was a secret organization that hid its very existence from the eyes of the public and in theory operated on a strict need-to-know basis, the news of agent Pochard's demise spread alarmingly fast. It all came down to the eggmen, really. Be it out of boredom or a desire to show off, the boys loved their gossip. And given that they were all but indistinguishable with their concealed faces and whole-body jumpsuits it was usually impossible to pinpoint the one who had started the scuttlebutt of the hour. Since it had proved impractical to make an example out of entire brigade groups the higher-ups gritted their teeth and accepted the rumor mill as one of those annoying facts of life. And of course, every so often, having an ear to the grapevine could come in handy.

Sporting a suitably straight face Steelbeak leaned against the coffee maker in the corridor of the underground compound and listened to one of the newer recruits, a lanky mallard in his early twenties, running his beak. The kid – his name escaped him at the moment – had been hired about half a year ago and was supposedly a crack shot. It seemed that he was also a blabbermouth who took great pleasure in relating the ugly details of the killing, as told to him by one of the eggmen involved, to a gaunt she-duck with short brown headfeathers whose empty right eye socket was covered by a black patch. Her the rooster had met before; she was part of F.O.W.L.'s military branch, an expert on explosives and only in town for a short stopover. When she met his glance she rolled her remaining eye, obviously bored by the mallard's antics, but she too saw the merit of being informed and humored him with the odd encouraging nod.

Steelbeak doubted that the boy was trying to score, the other duck was easily ten years his senior. More likely he wanted to present himself as a tough bird – but the effort was thoroughly ruined by frequent nervous giggles.

Tuning out the idiot as best as he could the rooster finished his coffee and wondered how High Command would react to this.

Like most of his coworkers he had long since given up on trying to predict their mysterious bosses, but there was the worrying possibility that taking out S.H.U.S.H.'s chief agent would leave Stavro with enough brownie points to get rid of him again. Probably not in the permanent sense – after his recent surgery he represented an investment and High Command _always_ got their money's worth – but he didn't think that a transfer to Greenland was out of the question. And to think of all the tragic accidents that could happen, so far away from home...

While the mallard kept blabbering Steelbeak crushed the empty paper cup in his fist and was just about to excuse himself, when his eyes widened at one particular bit of information.

"He did _what_?"

.* * *.

In his office in the topmost floor of S.H.U.S.H. central J. Gander Hooter tried to concentrate on his work but his mind kept wandering to his two best agents, Pochard and Grizzlikov. Neither of them had reported in for work today, which was worrying in itself as both were highly dependable. But with F.O.W.L. stirring in its enforced hibernation it was almost enough to send the old avian into a fit of panic.

Neither of them had answered the phone or the doorbell either, despite repeated attempts, and at two in the afternoon the Director of S.H.U.S.H. had finally sent two pairs of agents out to break into their colleagues' homes to look for clues as to their whereabouts, hoping that they wouldn't turn up in the emergency ward of some hospital – or worse.

Lost in this unpleasant train of thought, Hooter jerked when the phone rang. Composing himself he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"This is agent Fangwell, sir. We found Grizzlikov, he's in his apartment."

His tone of voice told Hooter enough to know that something was very wrong. "Bring him in, then."

The agent hesitated for a second. "I don't think we can, sir," he answered. "Not without using force. He won't even let us into the room."

Hooter frowned, the uneasy feeling that had troubled him all day growing rapidly. "What is the meaning of this, agent Fangwell?"

"Maybe you should come in, Director Hooter," the agent suggested in an unhappy voice. "He's... not well."

It was a most irregular request – the Director of S.H.U.S.H. didn't make house calls – but J. Gander decided to trust his guts and Fangwell's judgment on this one. "I'll be there in ten minutes," he told the canine. He put the receiver back in the cradle, not quite able to keep his hands from shaking.

When Hooter arrived at Grizzlikov's humble apartment he was ushered in by a miserable looking agent Fangwell. His partner, a slim young rat girl by the name of Eva Cottontail, gave him a weak nod, all the while fighting back tears. With a grave sigh the old gander motioned for them to wait outside. There was no need for explanations – he had realized what was happening the moment Fangwell had opened that door. It was impossible to ignore – the screaming.

The voice was almost impossible to recognize, it was hard to believe that it even belonged to a sentient being. Yet beneath the pain, the fear, _the pain,_ J. Gander thought he could make out traces of the poised, confident drake who'd been standing in his office only yesterday, smiling. There was laughter, too, cruel, mocking laughter. And over everything, merciless like clockwork, the hissing of hydraulic engines, the scraping of metal on metal. The sound of a trash compactor.

"I think it came with today's mail," Fangwell told Hooter in a low voice while the poor girl was all but running out of the flat. "He had that damned record on repeat ever since we got here – probably all day long."

The old gander nodded numbly and the canine hurried after his partner. Bracing himself he knocked on the bedroom door.

"Go away!"

"This is J. Gander Hooter," he said softly. "I'm coming in now."

"Don't," came the answer, half a sob. "Stay out..."

Ignoring the last plea the avian carefully opened the door. Bits of a shattered bedside lamp crunched beneath his webbed feet – it seemed Grizzlikov had been very adamant in not letting anybody in. It took Hooter a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, since the drapes were still closed. The huge bear was sitting on the edge of his bed, in his gray pants and a rumpled white shirt, cradling a cassette recorder in his lap like a broken doll.

"They got him," he whispered in a hollow voice. "While I was home, asleep, they got him. They did _this_ to him." His body was shaken by a ragged sob. "I wasn't there to help. I let them do _this_ to him!"

When Hooter gently pried the recorder out of he bear's fingers he met with no resistance, but when he turned it off some dam inside Grizzlikov broke. Burying his head in his hands he started to cry.

Helplessly the old gander gently laid a small hand on the shivering bear's huge back. "It's not your fault," he murmured. "There was nothing you could do."

He doubted that that was true. Probably there had been a mistake, an oversight. If he knew his chief agent – had known him, he corrected himself mentally – he had likely talked Grizzlikov into going easy on some safety precaution or other. Whatever it was, it would probably haunt the agent for the rest of his life. That wasn't what he needed to hear right now, though. "It's not your fault," he repeated softly. "This is... what we do. It happens. Sometimes it just happens. It's not your fault."

For hours the frail old gander sat next to the huge bear, trying to comfort him as he wept like a child.

.* * *.

Irritably tapping a pen against the wooden surface of his desk Steelbeak brooded over the news of the chief agent's recent endeavors in his temporary office, several feet under the streets of St Canard.

That bit with the record was sick even by his standards but if he'd let that bother him he'd be in the wrong line of work. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if Stavro had overshot his mark with this last display of casual cruelty.

He vaguely remembered Grizzlikov – a surly bear with a thick Russian accent, built like a refrigerator. Before his time abroad he'd had a run-in with him and his partner, the recently deceased James Pochard. If memory served the ursine had been the more reserved of the duo, content to leave the talking to his avian friend. But Steelbeak couldn't for the life of his remember him backing down or even flinching in the face of danger – or, more specifically, in the face of a dozen heavily armed eggmen.

On a hunch he rose and walked over to archive two, where they stored the files F.O.W.L. had on the S.H.U.S.H. agents who were based in the city. Grizzlikov's folder wasn't as voluminous as he would have liked – what little information there was mostly came from the debriefing of agents who had encountered the bear in the field. The notes depicted him as exceptionally competent, if somewhat highly strung. Somebody had noticed a tendency to take out frustrations on nearby objects and suspected anger management issues. The rooster shook his head. Stavro might have gravely miscalculated on this one – if he had calculated at all. Instead of reducing Grizzlikov to an emotional wreck he could well have unleashed three-hundred pounds of ursine fury, out for revenge.

Steelbeak narrowed his eyes. Now here was a thought...

After jotting down a few notes he carefully put the folder back on the shelf and left the archive to make for the elevator.

.* * *.

The sun had set by the time he had gotten a grip on himself again. Director Hooter had gently suggested a soporific but Grizzlikov wouldn't hear of it. It wasn't the dreams he feared, it was the grim realization upon waking up, the second he remembered that everything hadn't just been a horrible dream.

As it was he had accompanied the old avian back to S.H.U.S.H. central – his superior had flat out refused to leave him in his home on his own, and since he had no family in town there wasn't really anywhere else to go for him. The agency kept a grief counselor for such cases, since it was by no means uncommon for agents to suffer from traumatic experiences in the line of duty, but Grizzlikov didn't think he could talk about James without breaking down again. Since just sitting around made him go crazy he tried to calm himself by walking around in the vast park that surrounded the government building. By day there were always families there, old people taking a walk and the odd couple of teenagers, but right now it was dark and the area as good as empty. The only other person around was a fellow S.H.U.S.H. agent, a young donkey straight out of training, who had been assigned to keep an eye on him, 'just in case', as the Director had put it. Grizzlikov wasn't happy about that but there was no point in taking it out on the youngster. At least the boy had the good sense to keep his distance so it was easy to ignore him – the bear had enough on his mind anyway.

He found himself thinking of Emily, the girl James had gone to see last night – he suddenly realized that he would have to tell her about her boyfriend's death. He had never even met her. She would open the door to a total stranger who would tell her that the drake who had loved her was dead, killed while doing a duty he had never told her about. He thought of James' parents who lived up north and who the avian had never been able to visit as often as he would have liked. He wondered what Director Hooter would tell them about the manner of their son's death and why they would have to bury an empty coffin.

Most of all Grizzlikov thought of Stavro, the huge bulldog who had murdered his best friend. He would recognize that laughter anywhere and he had spent hours listening to it, to F.O.W.L.'s chief agent reveling in his triumph and his power. He felt his hands open and close involuntarily and wished that he could wrap them around the canine's throat. With a growl he stuffed his fists into his pockets and ground his teeth. He would never let him get away with this, he would hunt that animal down even if it took the rest of his life. And when he had him...

Lost in dark thoughts he was barely aware of his surroundings so he only noticed the other pedestrian when he almost bumped into him. "'scuse me," the stranger muttered without slowing down. Grizzlikov felt feathered fingers brush against his furry wrist and suddenly his pocket contained a slip of paper.

Years of training took over – despite the bear's troubled emotional state he kept walking at the same pace and spared the other only the shortest of glances over his shoulder. Male, and tall for an avian. A beige hat and a matching long coat hid most of his form; the only distinguishing feature he could make out was a tuft of long blue tailfeathers.

The agent who walked a few steps behind him gave the avian a suspicious look as well but seemed to shrug it off – from experience Grizzlikov knew that such an exchange was almost impossible to detect for an onlooker, especially if said onlooker was still wet behind the ears and had no reason to suspect that his colleague would want to hide something from him. It was the easiest thing in the world to calmly walk around a little lake overgrown with high reeds and, during the few seconds he was out of his minder's line of sight, quickly take out the paper to look at the writing. When he realized what he was holding he felt the turmoil of feelings inside him subside, leaving him with a dark sense of purpose, as if he had just entered the eye of the storm.

Later people would ask him what on earth he had been thinking and he would respond that this approach had been simply too unsubtle to be a trap, that the information might have been time-sensitive and any delay to be avoided. He would argue that the message had clearly been meant for him and him alone and any attempt to bring other agents would have driven whoever was trying to contact him into hiding.

In truth none of that even crossed his mind as he crushed the paper in his fist and kept walking towards a small gathering of fir trees. The flood of wrath, pain and guilt that seemed to suffocate his soul had been unleashed, had been given a target, and he had to follow or go mad.

The paper had only one word scribbled on it. _Payback. _Along with an address.

When the young donkey who was following him walked out of the tiny makeshift wood again, Grizzlikov was nowhere to be seen.

.* * *.

The moon was breaking through the clouds, a pale silvery sickle, but its light was drowned out by the street lamps. This part of the suburbs was mainly inhabited by the well-to-do – families of doctors and successful lawyers and retired managers. Despite the wealth to be found here there were never many reported crimes to speak of, although that might have something to do with the fact that most mansions were surrounded by six foot high metal fences and the curtains were very closed indeed – both in the literal and the figurative sense.

Steelbeak had arrived here only minutes before Grizzlikov and taken cover behind an electrical cabinet made of gray steel plate. When the bear arrived he almost didn't notice him at first. The ursine kept to the shadows, in turns standing motionless and sauntering along the sidewalk like he didn't have a care in the world. He was good, the rooster had to admit. But no matter how good he was, alone and unequipped he couldn't hope to overcome Stavro's security.

The main entrance was safeguarded by the latest electromagnetic locks and flanked by two surveillance cameras, but that wasn't uncommon in this area. Being a trained agent Grizzlikov was probably more worried about the cameras he couldn't see and the motion detectors he couldn't possibly evade. He had to realize that with such defenses he had no chance of entering unnoticed. Luckily there was a remedy for that

The lock that closed the outdoor cabinet yielded to a skeleton key almost instantly. After donning a pair of thick gloves Steelbeak went to work with a pair of insulated pliers and within seconds the entire street was shrouded in darkness. It took his eyes a few seconds to get used to the faint moonlight. When he could make out Grizzlikov again he saw that the ursine had bared his teeth in a grim smile, his white fangs eerily bright in the murk. The S.H.U.S.H. agent stared at the mansion for some time, but just when Steelbeak thought he would back down after all the bear made for the house, his every movement that of a born predator.

"Open Sesame," the rooster murmured, his prosthetic beak turned into a wry smirk. "Have fun, Grizzy..."

.* * *.

Had he been in a clearer state of mind, Grizzlikov never would have considered entering the mansion after the suspiciously convenient power cut. Someone was obviously directing his steps, probably trying to use him for his own ends. On some level the bear knew that – only he didn't care as long as it led to Stavro's end as well. Even if it would turn out to be a trap, there was no question of walking away. If there was the tiniest chance of avenging James he had to take it or he would never be able to look in a mirror again.

With a litheness that few would have suspected in someone his size he sneaked over the lawn, along a glowing pool that steamed in the cold night air, and to the back door. It wasn't locked; he was already inside the secured parameter and nobody liked to fiddle with a combination lock whenever he went to have a swim.

The moment he opened the door he could hear Stavro gingerly walk around the house, maybe searching for the fuse box, maybe for a weapon. Whatever he was looking for, Grizzlikov had no intention of letting him find it. Without making a sound he followed the canine, navigating by touch and hearing. Then suddenly Stavro stopped moving and everything went quiet. With a dry swallow the bear strained his ears but the only sound was the wind coming in through the open backdoor. His eyes widened. The open backdoor...

There was nothing to do but charge. He stalked through the room and into the corridor – and suddenly he was face to face with Stavro.

On his way here he had envisioned this moment maybe a hundred times, the moment he confronted James' murderer and told him what he would do to him, and why, but when he saw the bulldog all the words disappeared from his mind, swallowed by a red cloud of fury. Stavro stared at him in utter surprise when Grizzlikov's hands reached for his throat, found it, and closed like a bench vise. The surprise on the canine's face was replaced by sudden fury as he swatted at the bear's face. Taking the blows without flinching the ursine held on to Stavro's throat, pressing the life out of him and finally the ursine saw fear welling up in the bulldog's eyes.

With a throttled growl the canine grabbed Grizzlikov's head with both hands and pressed his thumbs into the bear's eyes, anything to make him let go. Howling in pain the ursine tackled his opponent – they were about the same size, but the panic that came with suffocation weakened Stavro's stance and he fell over, taking his attacker with him. There was a second of vertigo and the back of the canine's head connected with the tiled floor with an unnaturally loud crunch. The hands that had threatened to blind Grizzlikov became limp and the dog's eyes lost focus and rolled back in his head. Gasping, the ursine rubbed at his forehead, trying to chase away the bright lights that danced in his vision, painfully aware of the sound of Stavro's ragged breath.

Disgusted he stared at the murderer. The canine's head was craned back, his throat bared, like an invitation. It would be easy to kill him, to end it all, right here, right now. It would be just. Grizzlikov had read the reports, seen the pictures, heard the rumors. He _knew_ what this one had done, not only to James but to countless others.

His hands moved almost on their own volition, once more firmly closing around the canine's neck.

Killing his friend probably hadn't even mattered to him, not any more than crushing a bug. This brutal, cruel murder that had ripped a glaring wound into the life of Grizzlikov and everybody else who had known James had been nothing more to him than a means to secure his own position. It hadn't meant anything to him and now he would die for it without really understanding the reason.

Suddenly Grizzlikov's eyes swam in tears, and it had nothing to do with Stavro's earlier attack. _He wouldn't even know..._

A hoarse sound escaped the bear's throat, barely understandable, uttered in a voice that cracked with a myriad of conflicting emotions. A whispered _"No."_

For a moment the world seemed to hold its breath.

"No," he growled again. It took every ounce of self-control to let go, to not smash Stavro's head against the floor over and over and over, but he managed. Breathing heavily he rose and very slowly backed away from the canine, his hands still trembling. "You not – get off – that – _easy_!"

.* * *.

In the Director's office at S.H.U.S.H. central J. Gander Hooter was rubbing his temples as he stared at the documents on his desk without really seeing them. It had been quite a night.

When agent Mules had stormed into his office three hours ago and almost tearfully admitted to having lost sight of Grizzlikov, the old avian had feared the worst. He had called the St Canard police department so the patrols would look for him and sent every available agent out to search for the bear, all the while knowing that it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. After all they were in the business of doing things away from prying eyes, and they would need nothing short of a miracle to find their missing agent again.

The miracle had come almost an hour later, in the form of a phone call. Afraid of what he might hear it had taken him a few seconds to work up the courage to pick up the receiver. When it had been the voice of a very tense but apparently unharmed Grizzlikov, informing him that he was in chief agent Stavro's private home and had the canine neutralized – his exact choice of words – he almost hadn't dared to trust his ears. After another half hour the agent in charge of the team he had sent to collect the bear and whatever might be left of Stavro had called him. He had confirmed that Grizzlikov was alive and well – and to Hooter's vast relief requested an ambulance, since the F.O.W.L. agent appeared concussed and they wanted to exclude any further damage to his person.

For Grizzlikov's sake Hooter was glad that the ursine had restrained himself – not only because killing Stavro without any warrant and while officially off duty would have resulted in the bear being removed from S.H.U.S.H. and quite possibly being charged with manslaughter, but also because the idea of one of his agents being used as a pawn in what was probably an internal power struggle at F.O.W.L. disgusted him.

That somebody had tried to take advantage of Grizzlikov's troubled emotional state was obvious to the avian – the tip-off and the well-timed power outage didn't leave much room for doubt. It would have been obvious to his agent as well, had he not been half-mad with grief and beyond caring. Somebody wanted the canine dead – a rival maybe, or some lackey who had been kicked one time too many; someone like Stavro generally had no shortage of enemies. And since High Command didn't take kindly to people wantonly damaging their assets he or she had tried to manipulate somebody else into doing the deed.

Hooter briefly wondered what they would do to someone who delivered said asset right into the hands of S.H.U.S.H. but found that he didn't care all that much. He had other things on his mind, like notifying James Pochard's family – a duty he didn't cherish but it had to be done. And he would have to find the right words to say to agent Grizzlikov. Nothing he could tell him would make the pain over his friend's death go away, but that was a pain that many agents had suffered from before, that he himself had suffered numerous times. Hooter sighed. At least the ursine didn't have to live with the knowledge that the one who was responsible for his friend's death was still out there. Grizzlikov hadn't been able to save his friend, but he had arrested his murderer. Hopefully that would give him the closure he needed to heal.

Suddenly the phone rang and interrupted his musings. Trying to shake the feeling of deja-vu he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

As the old gander listened to the voice on the other end of the line he closed his eyes and leaned back in despair. "Oh, please, no."

.* * *.

Agent Grizzlikov was in his office, collapsed in his chair with his eyes closed. He felt numb all over. Stavro was on his way to prison; the canine would never harm another living creature ever again. It didn't stop the pain he felt over his friend's death, but killing his murderer probably wouldn't have done that, either.

There would be an investigation, of course, for injuring the F.O.W.L. agent and generally ignoring orders, but the Director had quietly informed him that he had nothing to worry about, that he would personally see to it that his record remained free from all rebuke. Like it mattered.

The old avian had also advised him to get some sleep, but the mere thought of going home, of going back to that room where he had spent hours listening to James' death over and over again, filled him with dread. Maybe he should go find himself a hotel but he was too wary, too tired to even contemplate standing up. Maybe he would simply stay here in this office, in this chair, until his body gave out with fatigue.

Suddenly there was a quiet knock and J. Gander Hooter entered the room. Without saying a word he closed the door behind himself, then he turned to face Grizzlikov.

One look at the old gander told him that something was not right at all. "Director Hooter?" he asked in a small voice.

"There was a call from the escort we sent to guard the transport," Director Hooter sighed. There was no need to say which transport he was talking about. "They were intercepted by F.O.W.L. eggmen. Luckily none of our agents was killed but-" He gave the bear a look of deep, heartfelt sympathy. "I'm very sorry, agent Grizzlikov. They freed Stavro."

.* * *.

Clicking his beak in agitation Steelbeak paced back and forth in his fancy room in the Billton Hotel. He still hadn't gotten around to finding himself a proper apartment, and from the way it looked he might as well save himself the trouble of looking for one. In fact, depending on how bad things were, he might just save himself the trouble of ordering breakfast, too.

"Damn him," he muttered, without really knowing whether he meant Stavro or that half-baked S.H.U.S.H. agent. Grizzlikov had seemed ready to tear off the bulldog's head – literally. Who could have foreseen that the guy would actually show restraint?

Now the chief agent was in custody of the authorities, with nothing but a mild concussion – if he still was in custody and not already out and about, howling for blood. And Steelbeak had a pretty solid idea _whose_ blood he would be howling for – the only question was whether he could prove enough to kill him off with the blessing of High Command.

He jerked when his videophone gave a buzz. Speak of the devil. For a moment he was tempted to just ignore the damned thing and make a run for it, but the madness passed within heartbeats. He had seen firsthand how well that had worked out for Feathers Galore.

When the three silhouettes appeared on the little screen he did his best to look – well, not guilty. "He-hey, High Command. What's up?"

"Agent Steelbeak," the tall shadow in the middle said curtly. "You are of course aware that chief agent Stavro has been arrested."

It wasn't a question and he didn't dare to feign ignorance. "Yeah... I heard," he said vaguely. "Very, uh, sad." They wouldn't believe that last part for a second but it couldn't hurt to observe the decencies.

"In light of recent events we decided to make a few changes concerning certain employment contracts. You are to meet us at the junkyard in one hour, to finalize those changes."

"Junkyard?" the rooster squawked, feeling faint all of a sudden. "Now, look, let's not-" He interrupted himself when he realized what the avian had just said. "Wait a minute – _meet_ you?"

"Yes, agent Steelbeak. We would like to discuss your promotion."


	4. Conclusion

**Chapter 4: Conclusion**

The junkyard looked almost otherworldly in the pale moonlight. By some optical illusion the walls of wrecked cars and construction machines that surrounded the center of the yard seemed somehow higher and more menacing than they did during the day. Every now and then the metal would groan in a gust of wind, but other than that the junkyard was eerily quiet. The silence wouldn't last, however, for tonight this was to be the site of an execution.

In respectful distance from the huge cavity that was the scrap-press Steelbeak stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his right fist clutched around a gun. If this turned out to be a trap he would go down fighting. Of course, if it was, he wouldn't die alone tonight. Upon coming here he had risked a peek into the pit and Stavro was already down there, unconscious, unceremoniously dumped on the bed of a white pickup truck. His right hand sported a bandage with tell-tale red stains where his thumb should be.

Steelbeak wouldn't be at all surprised if the grisly token ended up on J. Gander Hooter's desk, first thing in the morning. This was more than making sure a captured agent didn't reveal any secrets to the enemy. This was a message, a casual demonstration of F.O.W.L.'s power. High Command might see fit to replace their chief agent but it would be on _their_ terms, by _their_ choice. Not out of any necessity generated by S.H.U.S.H..

The sound of a smooth-running engine interrupted his musings and he felt his whole body tense. They were coming. He had expected one of those oversized black limousines but the vehicle that crept into the secluded yard with dark headlights was almost offensively inconspicuous. Clenching his beak the rooster straightened up while the three avians he so far had only seen on video-screens got out of the car and walked up to the pit. Even their clothing was understated, if highly expensive. Were it not for their familiar silhouettes, he never would have suspected them to be the leading heads of the most powerful crime syndicate on the northern hemisphere. Which, of course, was the point.

"Don't look too closely, then you won't be tempted to search for our faces on surveillance shots or the like," the tallest of the trio, a gaunt, gray-feathered hawk, advised him dryly. He walked up to the pit, leaning on an unadorned wooden cane for support. "We value our privacy." When he stopped to face Steelbeak over the scrap-press, flanked by the other two avians, his beak quirked into what definitely wasn't a smile. "One of your predecessors once made the mistake of not respecting that boundary."

"Really," Steelbeak said neutrally. "What'd he die of?"

The hawk raised an eyebrow. "Oh, he's still alive," he replied in a soft voice. "It's most remarkable."

"Right." He gave a nervous cough. "Uh, I gotta say, I was surprised you actually wanted to do this in person."

"Understandable," the female High Commander, a slender duck who appeared to be in her thirties, allowed. "But we like to establish a personal connection with our chief executives." With her hands clasped behind her back she took another step towards the compacter and leaned forward to get a good look at Stavro. "And we like to maintain it."

Very conscious of the weapon he still held tightly in his right hand Steelbeak slowly shifted his weight. "So we wait until he wakes up, huh?" he guessed with a nod towards the pit.

"All in good time," the duck told him with a brittle smile. "First we should go over the formalities." She turned her head to expectantly look at her companions, and the old hawk spoke.

"You are hereby promoted to the rank of chief agent, effective with your predecessor's passing," he stated in a solemn tone. "As of that moment you are in charge of F.O.W.L.'s department for intelligence, counter-intelligence and immediate action."

Steelbeak nodded, very slowly. It was by no means an administrative position. The innocent phrase 'immediate action' referred to handling the most secret matters, and the most urgent ones. Tasks assigned to this department frequently included acquiring valuable or dangerous objects, infiltration and sabotage of facilities run by competing organizations, and of course kidnappings and assassinations.

"In addition to that you will also receive the highest level of security clearance granted to members of the organization outside of High Command. You will be able to access certain files and data usually restricted to the other main departments: Finances, Military Forces and Research," the hawk continued. "We have high hopes for you, chief agent Steelbeak." He cocked his head and gave a smile that would have looked more natural on a snake. "So stop fingering that gun in your pocket."

With a nervous laugh the rooster took his empty hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back. "Hey, you can't fault a guy for being cautious, ah ah" he said with a smile he hoped looked innocent.

"No," the third Commander agreed, inclining his head. He was a sinewy falcon, slightly shorter and maybe twenty years younger than the other bird of prey. "As a matter of fact, we value your caution as much as we value your competitive nature."

Steelbeak made a choking sound. "My... Uh..."

"Of course we generally don't approve of agents putting their personal ambitions before the interests of F.O.W.L.," the falcon continued, ignoring the rooster's sudden discomfort. "But then, if an asset becomes too sure of himself, too reckless... If he becomes _unstable_-" he glanced at the compactor with distaste, "-it speaks in an agent's favor if he sees the writing on the wall."

Suppressing a shiver Steelbeak could only nod as the chilling realization hit him. _They knew._ They had probably wanted to get rid of Stavro for a while now. The canine wouldn't die because of this or last night's events, not specifically, but because High Command had finally found themselves a worthy successor. One with a nice competitive nature, who saw the writing on the wall.

"Yeah, I understand" he replied, and only years of practice enabled him to keep his voice level. "And you can be sure I'll remember."

The three avians looked at him out of cold eyes. "Don't make us ever think otherwise, chief agent," the hawk advised him calmly. Then he turned towards the duck who was still watching the inside of the pit with great interest. "How much longer until he wakes up?"

"Oh, he's awake," she answered with a certain amused tint to her voice. "Has been awake for a while now. I imagine he hopes we'll just go away if he plays dead long enough."

The hawk made a disapproving, _tsk_ing sound while the falcon edged forward to see for himself. Steelbeak finally stepped closer to the pit and took a look as well.

Stavro was indeed awake, and by now shaking violently. Seeing that his silence would buy him no more time he scrambled to his knees and started to plead. "Look," he stammered, his voice cracking with fear. "I get it, I screwed up. Got too reckless, yes, just like you said. But please don't do this. Please. Please, _please, not like this!_"

The members of High Command exchanged glances, as if to determine who would deliver the final verdict, then the duck spoke up. "So you want a clean death," she said in a voice that contained no emotion whatsoever. "Of course you do. You, better than anyone here, know how long it would take you to die in there. And you should have a vague idea how much pain you would have to suffer." She paused a few seconds before she continued, "It would be very easy to spare you that. Of course your body will be disposed of in any case, along with the vehicle that was used for retrieving you from the custody of the authorities. Certain appearances must be kept up. But there is no reason for you to be alive for that." With a glance at Steelbeak that made the rooster cringe she went on, "We could simply order your successor to shoot you – he came equipped. Two little words, that's all it would take to save you from so much pain." Her expression softened and Steelbeak could see the spark of hope in the canine's eyes. She saw it too, and she watched it grow to a bright flame before she crushed it. "We won't do that," she said flatly. "Not because we will take any pleasure from your inevitable screams, or out of the ridiculous notion that this is a more _fitting_ end for you. We simply don't care enough to extend the effort."

Despite the darkness Steelbeak could see the look on Stavro's face with painful clarity. For a few seconds he just stared at the duck, as if trying to comprehend what she had said. Then he started to scream. No cries for help that wouldn't come, no begging for mercy he wouldn't receive. Just gut-wrenching, unadulterated, primal horror given a voice.

Forcing himself to keep a straight face Steelbeak watched High Command while the powerful engines came to life. They would take no pleasure in the canine's suffering, he knew that. There would be no chuckling, no gleeful rubbing of hands. And they certainly didn't do this out of some sense for karmic justice, either. But there _was_ a reason High Command wanted Stavro to be alive for this – to impress upon their new chief agent the price of failure. This was what expected him in case he didn't live up to their expectations. This was what would happen to him if he failed them one time too many. This was what he would beg for if he betrayed them.

Suddenly the old hawk met his eyes. For a few seconds the freshly promoted chief agent held his gaze, his prosthetic beak turned into a mirthless smirk. Then he looked down into the pit again. And watched.

.* * *.

A glorious sunrise turned the eastern sky into a sea of amber and flooded the corridor with golden light, but agent Grizzlikov was of no mind to appreciate the beauty. He had spent the night going through lists of airline passengers, police reports, speeding tickets, anything that might give him a clue as to where Stavro was hiding. By now the lack of sleep was taking its toll and more than once he had caught himself reading the same paragraph over and over again, without really understanding the words. He was way past the point of total exhaustion, kept awake only by gallons of vile black coffee and the cold fury over Stavro's escape. By now the former seemed to burn a hole into his stomach and the latter did the same for his heart.

Upon hearing about Stavro's escape Grizzlikov had vehemently refused to go home, to go anywhere for that matter. He could help, he had insisted, and when Hooter remained skeptical he had all but begged that letting him investigate could do no harm, either. Reluctantly enough the old gander had complied – and he had probably quietly informed security that Grizzlikov was not to leave the building without his permission. J. Gander Hooter was not a bird to repeat mistakes. The ursine didn't care, he just wanted to find Stavro and see him locked up again.

The summons from Director Hooter had been a mixed blessing. There was the hope, however slim, that there were new clues as to the murderer's whereabouts. But leaving this room, walking down that corridor to the old gander's office, meant facing the others.

They all knew, that was plain from the way they fell silent, the way they looked at him. Nobody tried to approach him, for which he was grateful, but the deep compassion in their eyes was almost more than he could bear. When he reached the plain door at the end of the corridor it was all he could do not to breathe a sigh of relief as he entered.

Director Hooter was sitting at his desk, his hands folded on the wooden surface. "Ah, agent Grizzlikov. Please sit down."

"I prefer to stand, Sir," the bear replied stiffly, feeling his spirits sink even more. Nobody was ever told to sit down for _good_ news.

"Sit _down_, agent," Hooter repeated sternly. "You look about ready to collapse. When was the last time you slept?"

Sitting down Grizzlikov frowned, then glanced at his watch, trying to remember. He honestly couldn't tell.

"Yes, that's what I thought. Once we conduct this business you will go to the infirmary and get a decent night's sleep. Or day, as the case may be." Before he could even think about protesting, Hooter added, "That is an order and not up for discussion, agent Grizzlikov."

"Sir," he murmured sullenly. "And what about Stavro? Who will look for him?"

"Nobody, as that will no longer be necessary," the Director told him in a grave voice. "Stavro is dead."

Grizzlikov blinked. "What? How?"

"He was murdered by F.O.W.L.," the avian replied flatly and shoved two photos towards him. The topmost one showed the bulldog, unconscious or dead, lying in the bed of a pickup truck down in a pit that could only be a scrap press. The second picture seemed to have been taken at a later time – red being the predominant color.

Grizzlikov only spared it the shortest of glances before putting it back on the desk, face-down. "You are certain this is no trick?" he asked, stone-faced.

"They sent us his right thumb as well," Hooter sighed. "I am as certain as I can be, without an actual body."

"Why would they kill him?"

"It has happened before." The gander reached over to retrieve the photos. With a look of distaste he put them in a brown envelope. "Stavro has acted rather volatile for some time now, and with the recent influx of agents from Europe... Maybe High Command thought it was time to replace him." He gave Grizzlikov an evaluative look as he continued, "You arresting him may well have been the last straw."

For a long while the bear didn't answer. He stared ahead without really seeing anything, wondering whether he should be pleased about this and found that he wasn't. He felt cheated.

"Your thoughts on this, agent Grizzlikov?" the Director inquired softly.

"I did not want this," the bear said, his voice thick with disgust. "I wanted him to be put away, forever. I wanted to look into his eyes when he understood that he would never be free again, and that it would be for what he did to James and all the others. I didn't want him disposed of by F.O.W.L. because he was no longer _valuable_."

"I see," the avian murmured, and for a minute or two both of them were silent.

Grizzlikov didn't have to ask why High Command would notify Director Hooter of their staffing policy. He wasn't so vain as to assume they would want to get _him _off their backs, toss him a bone to stop him from digging deeper. More likely they had indeed found a more suitable candidate for the position of chief agent and like children who would spit on their ice-cream before letting somebody else have it they had killed Stavro themselves before giving him, before giving S.H.U.S.H. the satisfaction of bringing him down.

"Thank you for telling me, Director Hooter," the bear muttered somewhat stiffly, and made to rise.

"There is one more thing," the gander said. "I realize it is in poor taste to bring it up now, but I doubt anyone will feel better about it anytime soon." He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. "I would offer you the position of chief agent."

It took Grizzlikov a few seconds to digest that. Suddenly he was glad he was seated. "What is this?" he asked, maybe too sharply. "Consolation prize?"

"Hardly." The short gander leaned back in his chair, his hands on the armrests. "You simply are the one best suited for the job. In terms of skill, certainly, but more importantly in terms of character."

"The second best," the bear whispered hoarsely.

Hooter averted his eyes. "You don't have to decide right now. At this point I wouldn't accept a decision either way. Sleep it over, think about it... But please know that I can't think think of anyone more suited to carry on James' work."

"Why?" the bear asked. "Why the one who had to earn it over his best friend's dead body?"

"Because I can trust you to do the right thing," the other sighed. "You proved that. Even though I wish you could have proven it under different circumstances."

"So I get promotion for not smashing Stavro's skull."

The gander pretended not to notice the sarcasm. "That too... But more importantly you took no pleasure in his death – which, I don't doubt, was anything but merciful," Hooter added darkly. Then, raising his head again, he met the bear's eyes. "In the face of a tragedy like James' death it is very hard not to lose sight of what's important. You didn't, agent Grizzlikov. I'm not sure I could say the same of many others in this building." There was a sad and incredibly tired look on his face when he said the words.

Slowly, very slowly, the bear nodded. "If you excuse me now, Director."

"Of course. Get some rest."

When he rose from the chair he felt as if his limbs were filled with lead. After closing the door to Hooter's office behind him he turned towards the staircase that led to the infirmary. As he thought about the avian's offer he felt bile rise in his throat. The position of chief agent was something he had once hoped for, of course. But just like with Stavro's downfall, getting his wish felt like a stab in the stomach now.

When he passed a window he paused and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of the early sun rays on his fur. Mercifully the corridor was empty at the moment, the only sound being the occasional hiss from the coffee maker. For a second Grizzlikov felt almost at peace. Then it hit him that he would never again stand next to that machine with James, to bicker over a paper cup of that vile black coffee, and he had to blink away tears.

He would accept that promotion, he knew. To do the work that had always meant so much to the two of them, and to do everything in his power to show that he was worthy of the duty he had been entrusted with. Vladimir Grizzlikov would use his new authority to make a difference, for the better. He had to.

After all, he had earned it over his best friend's dead body.


End file.
